Still the Addict
by That G33Ky Girl
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock isn't clean. And this time it may cost him. Rating for drug use, angst, self-harm, and possibly future language.
1. Chapter 1: Bored

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock isn't clean. And this time it may cost him. Rating for drug use, angst, self-harm, and possibly future language.

In episode 1, A Study in Pink, Lestrade's "drugs bust" and Sherlock's reaction made me terribly curious as to his drug habit. Does he have one at all, did he have one, does he have one still? In the original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle books, Sherlock Holmes was a habitual cocaine user, which is why it's Sherlock's drug of choice here.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. In any way, shape or form, sadly. So pretty please don't sue me.

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><p>From Sherlock's point of view.<p>

John is gone. It's been almost a week now and there are no cases. Why the criminal classes should chose now, when my primary source of secondary entertainment (secondary to solving crime, obviously) is away visiting his sister, and will be away for at least another day, is beyond my comprehension. This dead spell started the week before he left, and has continued until now, when my boredom is approaching unbearable.

So I'm alone. And bored. Bored, bored, bored. Terribly, mind-numbingly, inconceivably _bored_. And there's nothing and no one to distract me from the horrible predictability of life, and how skull-crushingly dull it is to just _exist_, without challenges, without the work that keeps me going. My finely-tuned mind continues to churn, continues to seek answers, but without questions, it just turns upon itself, upon me. And that is one thing I cannot stand.

I can see through everyone, find their every flaw, every insecurity, and I myself am no exception. And I need distraction, because I do not like the things I see in myself. Too tall, too skinny, sharp eyes and shaper tongue. Alone, unlikeable and friendless. A freak. But being a freak is all I've known. I don't know how to be anything else, how to turn off the blessing that curses me to this. The boredom, and the cocaine.

John doesn't know. He thinks I'm clean. Lestrade wouldn't work with me if he knew. What they don't know is that I've been injecting myself with anything that would stave off the banality of life since I was sixteen, or that it would be easier to put out my eyes than to stop. Nobody knows but Mycroft, but he too thinks I've given up the habit.

And here I am again, bottle in hand, sleeve rolled up, selecting a spot on my arm, amongst the other, older marks, scars, and burns marring the smooth white flesh of my forearm. I've tried other things, through sheer desperation to feel something. To not be bored. But I've found that cocaine works best, my seven per cent solution, and that its marks are easier to hide. I fill the syringe to the proper mark and sigh lightly as the needle penetrates my skin. Relief will come soon. It's been 41 days since I last used. But I always come back.

I depress the plunger, and recline on the sofa, as the sweet relief races through my veins. I leave the needle and bottle where they are. It will be some time before John returns, and everything will be long hidden before then. So I lay back, steeple my fingers under my chin, and relax, as I can only when under the influence of narcotics.

Well, try to. It's not working quite like it should. The dreamy feeling is there, yes, but not nearly so strong as it should be. I frown, acutely irritated by the lack of release I'm feeling, drum my fingers against the coffee table. _Ah, of course._ My body's built up a resistance to the cocaine, so the reaction isn't as strong. I can still get the proper reaction. I just need more.

And the need is strong, now that I've had a taste of it. I'm not sure how much more I should use, however. I've never faced this response before. Normally, I would do some calculations, based on body weight, the amount I'd taken before, and the amount of resistance I'm feeling. But I can't wait. My need for the drug is growing still more pressing. So I do a slapdash calculation in my head, and fill the needle with what looks like a reasonable amount. Injecting it is the sweetest relief I've ever felt, until the edges of my vision go fuzzy and the darkness swallows me whole.

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><p>That's it for now, I'm afraid. If I get enough lovely reviews though, I may continue it. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sherlock is such a wonderful muse.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2: Guilt, Hurt and Anger

Eeeep I love reviews. Thanks you everyone, you are all fantastic. :) Sorry it took so long to continue, I haven't been able to watch Sherlock for several days, and was therefore, lacking in inspiration. But all is well now. I have continued the story!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. In any way, shape or form, sadly. So pretty please don't sue me.

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><p>From John's point of view.<p>

It wasn't a bad few days at Harry's, really, but I was still so glad to come home to the, (entirely relative) sanity of our flat. Any place, even a flat shared with Sherlock Holmes is sane compared to my sister's place. I felt rather lucky that I escaped a day early, because, while she was my sister, she drove me absolutely crazy even in the best of times. I was curious to see how Sherlock would handle my returning one day early, since he handled my comings and goings oddly anyway. He often wouldn't notice I'd gone out, and would continue talking to me as though I was still there, ignoring my lack of response. I wondered if he would even realize that I was back, since he hadn't been expecting me for another day, or if he would continue to not notice my arrival until it was expected. On the other hand, he may not even have noticed I'd been gone at all. I never could tell when he was actually listening to me. He'd once responded to the news that I was due in court and was getting an ASBO with "Good, fine." He was exasperating, but I had missed him.

When I entered our flat, I found the world's only consulting detective sprawled on the couch, asleep. I smiled a bit, because I've only actually seen Sherlock sleep a bare handful of times, as he doesn't sleep much to begin with, and hardly at all when on cases. However, as I got closer, something about the manner he was sleeping caught my attention. His skin looked flushed and feverish. And his breathing was much too fast. That was when I saw the needle in his arm, and the bottle on the coffee table. I dropped my bags and was at his side in an instant.

I groped for a pulse, and, thank God, found one, but it was fluttery and erratic. His skin was hot to the touch as well, much too hot, and his breathing was accelerated far beyond normal. It looked like a possible overdose. God, I didn't even know he used drugs.

I wanted to pound my head into the wall. How could _I_, Sherlock's flatmate, and admittedly only friend, _not know_ that he used drugs? Guilt, hurt, and anger washed over me in turns. I was angry with myself for not noticing that my best friend was getting high behind my back, furious, really. And I was hurt that Sherlock had never mentioned anything to do with his using drugs, aside from the barest hint, which I'd basically ignored, when Lestrade had used a fake drugs bust to bully Sherlock into helping with a case. And then I was irate with myself again, for not figuring out that he had to be doing _something_ to keep himself entertained without cases. I'd seen what he was like without them, so how could I not _bloody know_ that he must have some way to soothe his addiction to puzzles? A secondary addiction made all the sense in the world, now that it was staring me in the face.

All this went through my mind in seconds, and was dismissed, just as fast. I could handle my own emotions later. For now, I had a detective in the grips of a drug overdose to deal with. My first instinct was to phone the hospital. But, no, that wouldn't work. I couldn't do that to Sherlock. There would be questions, and a police report, and Lestrade wouldn't work with Sherlock unless he was clean. Lestrade gave Sherlock 80% of his cases. Without cases, it'd be back to the-

No. No hospitals. Out of the question.

My next thought was "_Stupid, you're a doctor. Tend to him yourself, here, and keep this quiet."_ But I dismissed that almost as quickly. I knew next to nothing about dealing with overdoses, and didn't have the time to read up on them. Sherlock might be- probably was- dying right in front of me. No. No time.

Mycroft. Mycroft had access to everything, and could make it happen fast and secret. He could get doctors out here quickly, and make sure no word of this ever left 221B Baker St. And he would do it, too. I had no doubt that he would abuse any amount of his power to help his little brother. He surely knew as well as I what a police inquiry would mean for Sherlock's career, the only thing that meant anything to him.

I fumbled my phone and dropped it, upending Sherlock's bottle in my haste to dial. "_Cocaine_" stared up at me from the label. He'd labeled it, the same way he'd label the lab samples he brought home and left scattered on our kitchen table. I didn't know where he'd hidden it, but I promised myself that as soon as this was over, I would search the whole damned flat until I was sure that there was no more. I would not let my best friend do this to himself again, not under my watch. I finally got the number right, and listened to it ring, praying that Mycroft would pick up.

_God, please let him be alright._


End file.
